


Your Bones

by EliotRosewater



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, Body Horror, Bucky Barnes's Metal Arm, Flashbacks, Friendship, Gen, Graphic Description, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Stand Alone
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:28:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23245537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EliotRosewater/pseuds/EliotRosewater
Summary: "If he didn't think about anything but the motion of walking — muscles contracting while their counterparts stretched, tendons pulling on his bones, knees bending and unbending — if Bucky thought of nothing else, he would be OK."After Stark and the missile silo, but before Wakanda.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers
Comments: 6
Kudos: 33





	Your Bones

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted 03 October 2016.
> 
> **THERE ARE GRAPHIC DESCRIPTIONS OF INJURY in this work.**

If he didn't think about anything but the motion of walking — muscles contracting while their counterparts stretched, tendons pulling on his bones, knees bending and unbending — if Bucky thought of nothing else, he would be OK. Those muscles red with oxygenated blood, pale and tangled tendons, even paler bones —

"Hey."

The word cracked at the edges. It was coming to him from a frequency he wasn't tuned to — or maybe he _was_ tuned to the right frequency, but he just wasn't picking up the signal; there was interference.

"Bucky, you with me?"

It was closer that time.

The muscles involved in walking did not include the mouth, but he managed to say, "Yeah."

_Haven't always been with ya, Steve. But you've always been with me. With ya now though._

But those thoughts weren't his legs and so Bucky stumbled. Steve's arm around him tightened. It pressed into the places where that goddamned repulsor had hit him. His ribs felt filled with thousands of splinters, all of them poking at his lungs. The metal reinforcements along his spine were no more than shrapnel now. The pressure forced a grunt up and out.

"Sorry."

"S'OK."

_I've had worse but you already know that_.

It occurred to Bucky to ask, "You OK?"

"Better than you, pal." Steve must have known what Bucky was thinking because he added, "It'll be fine by tomorrow."

And wasn't _that_ an optimistic prognosis?

Something heavy and hot crawled up Bucky's conscience. "I think I can take it from here," he said.

Progress stopped and Bucky's back was suddenly to the wall. He needed to think of walking — the muscles and the bones and the tendons all working together to keep him in motion. . . . Steve's arm, the one that used to bear the shield, was suddenly curving into Bucky's blurry line of sight. Steve's bruised and bloody fingers were probing Bucky's face and scalp.

"How hard did Tony kick you?" he said.

"What're you doing?" The ground swayed, but Bucky was resilient. He thought of bones.

"Checking for head wounds."

"Why?"

Tendons pulling, muscles contracting and extending, bones dragging it all forward.

"Because a head wound is the only logical explanation for why you would be saying the things you're saying."

The feeling in his throat grew more urgent. There was a bitter taste, like red and brown.

"Steve—"

"Don't. Bucky, just don't." Steve sighed, and it had to have hurt. He shifted, pulling Bucky's arm back around his neck. They were moving again. Steve had one more word, though: "Please."

Muscles, bones, tendons — all of them worked together to move the body forward. Bones, muscles, tendons. Tendons, muscles, bones. First on the left, then on the right. Red, red muscles. Spaghetti-white tendons plucked from their fleshy homes. Bones cracked and spilling their marrow into the snow—

"Hey. Not again."

—snowflakes were covering his eyes, burying him until he couldn't see he couldn't see he couldn't see—

"Buck."

—he couldn't see, there was snow in his eyes, there was a light in his eyes and it was calling him Sergeant Barnes. His bones spilling potential, pulling tendons _don't there's nothing wrong_ —

"Bucky!"

"M'OK, Steve."

"Yeah, and I'm the Queen of England."

Tendons and muscles and b—bone saws. Bone saws? Bleeding, bleeding, leaving a red, red trail in the snow. Snow was in his eyes, his eyes were filled with sky and snow and he couldn't see. Muscles and — and — raw and exposed nerves, no. They were wires now.

"Gotta stay with me, pal. Come on, Buck. Stay here with me. Stay with Steve. Don't go somewhere I can't follow. Not again. I just got you back, man."

He was pressing on Bucky's splintered ribs. Blood was oozing out of his muscles and saturating his insides. The point where the repulsor impacted him must have looked like a red and violet starburst. Constellations of bruises must have been rising to the surface. Inside; it always happened inside. It always rose to the surface, but it never spilled out. The blood oozed, but it never escaped through Bucky's paper-skin. Steve's pressure was making it spread faster. Bruises and his bones — bone saw — _his bones_ were fracturing, the metal bits, too, snapping off into daggers under the weight of _Steve_.

Bucky wanted to reach across and steady himself against Steve's chest. He wanted to pull himself into a more dignified position. But he had no arm to do it with. His back was filled with twisted metal and splintered bone; he couldn't even straighten up. He could feel it still — he could still feel his true arm, gone and eaten by scavengers in 1944 — or was it 1945? The books and his mind couldn't agree. Bucky could _feel_ it. Even now, after all this time, he could stretch the ghosts of those fingers. They cramped and cracked in his imagination all these years, a metal glove a few sizes too big over them. The ruined shoulder jerked anyway, longing to complete the action.

Bucky saw brilliant, violent white. Everything stopped.

"Shit." It was Steve's voice echoing over the white and light and snow covering his eyes.

It was the moment when the tube stopped his breathing. It was the moment when he became aware again during the thaw, before they opened the tube. Hot, white, and screaming in his ears that didn't go away until the doors were lifted open. White like the cloth they draped over him, his blood infecting the weave stitch by stich. White like snow. White like the lights that were always overhead. White like the sparks of the tools when they made repairs to his arm and his brain. White like his skin before it turned hot and red, and it stung from the sluggish circulation of his slushy blood. White like his bones, because he had _seen_ them.

But it was fading now, the white. The white was being driven away by a shadow. He could breathe through his snapped-stick ribs. There was snow in his eyes, but it wasn't so bad. Sensation, then. Something touching his face.

Bucky blinked the imaginary snow out of his eyes. Black arm attached to black suit. He looked up at a panther. It was speaking with a man's head, a quiet voice. The king had a hand to Bucky's face; he could feel the odd texture of the suit's gloves on his paper-skin.

". . . swear to you that you will know it once more, my friend," the king said.

That hand dropped away and so did Bucky's chin. A different hand caught him by the jaw. Fingers, not gloves. Steve. Those hands guided Bucky's head onto something more supportive. They put the weight of five decades onto something stronger than Bucky's neck.

Buzzing around him again. His skin and his muscles were _buzz_ ed until they weren't there anymore; he remembered that. Bucky remembered blue-green coats peeling back the flesh of his arm one bit at a time. He could remember the sound of their instruments scratching his bones. They had no use for bones when half of the ones they needed were missing. _Get rid of them_ , they had said. They got rid of them. Layer by layer, they got rid of the useless parts. Skinned his arm and dug through muscle until they found the grand prizes: nerves. Once they found their prizes, they peeled off all the extras. Detangled them from the rest of his body.

White, and then Bucky had woken up with an arm much sturdier than the last.

There were hands on him again, now. The sensation was driving the white away. Fingers were fighting in his hair. Bucky moaned at them. Motion stopped, but the fingers stayed put.

"Buck?"

Eyes opened and cleared of snow, Bucky got an intense close-up of Steve's battered face. "Whus goin' on?" he said stupidly. It was grey. He said, "Stark still here?"

The skin between Steve's eyes folded. "We're on the quinjet."

Roving his eyes around the space of his vision that wasn't dominated by _Steve_ , Bucky saw the truth. He felt the truth vibrating beneath him. He said, "Huh."

"You OK?"

"S'pose so." Bucky shifted and regretted it. "Arm's gone."

Steve breathed through his nose in a way that might have been a laugh. "I didn't notice."

"Shoulda grabbed one of the spares on our way out." At the look on Steve's face, Bucky cracked a weak smile and said, "I'm only jokin'. There aren't _spares_ , Steve. C'mon."

Relief colored Steve's cheeks. "Right."

It was cold in the jet, and Bucky told Steve so. Steve pulled out a very clinical-looking blanket and covered him. It was how Bucky realized two things. First, that he was lying down. Second, that he was no longer wearing a shirt.

"How long did I check out?" he asked. There was a frown on his face and disappointment in his voice.

"A little bit. I think I lost you right as we got outside. What do you remember?"

Bucky shook his head. "Nothing that happened this century."

Steve frowned.

"Thought I saw the king of Wakanda," Bucky said. Lying on his stomach like this made him feel vulnerable. His neck hurt, twisted as it was. The left side of his chest and his back ached in time with his pulse. Bucky was just plain _uncomfortable_.

Thankfully, Steve sat back. Bucky's sight went kaleidoscopic as he tracked the movement. The world was folding in on itself, getting bright in the center. His stomach tried to mirror the movements his eyes saw. Snow was starting to fall over his eyes again. A saw was snarling distantly.

Steve was nodding. "T'Challa's offering us asylum in Wakanda. We're headed that way now."

Clenching his only fist, Bucky tried nodding, too. He stopped immediately. Pinched his eyes closed. "OK," he managed to say.

"They're one of the most advanced countries in the world. Nobody knows for sure because of the closed borders, but, since meeting T'Challa, I think it's true."

"Hm," Bucky half hummed and half grunted.

"They can make you a new arm. Better than the last one. They have the capabilities."

Did he want a new arm? Did Bucky want to do that _again_?

Somewhere — closer than the buzzing of the saw but still far away — something was beeping. It echoed through the valleys of Bucky's ruined arm, ringing him like a bell. He closed his eyes harder and rocked his forehead back and forth on whatever table he was laying on — _t-table . . . They pulled his arm away from him so it was on its own little table. They went down to the center of him layer by layer._

Muscles. Muscles stripped of their flesh. They had been frayed like bootlaces. He had made a guttural sound when he saw it. They had frowned at the sound. They had filled him with stones until he sank, and they had covered his eyes with snow. With little bits of metal, they sorted through what remained of him. When they'd found those precious nerves, they cut they cut they cut until it was a pearly streamer lying on his arm's table.

Bucky's stomach clenched. Unpleasant, but it pushed him out of the memory. "Steve," he moaned.

There was a lot of commotion. Moving. Steve was moving — when had he left Bucky's side? Fuck, had he checked out again? How long this time? Jesus Fucking Christ.

A weight on his calf with the outline of a hand. "Right here," said Steve. "What do you need?"

"Talk," he said. He demanded it, maybe. With desperation. "Talk about something," Bucky said with more control.

"Abo—what do you want me to say?"

Once, he had sweated himself into awareness and there was nothing but limp white strings lying on that little table. It no longer belonged to his arm, because his arm was gone. Picked away by a mythical beast one bit at a time. He had sobbed again, and they had put him back under right away.

_Bang_. It was his only fist hitting the t- _table_. Bucky squirmed so that pain trilled up and down his spine. It threatened to zap him into another year, but at least it wasn't _that_ year.

"Anything," he said. Was he begging? "Please talk."

"Uh," Steve said. There was, at least, a sense of urgency. "Uh um. Th-that freezer truck. That we were t-talking about. Before. Um. Remember we were talking about that?"

"Yes," Bucky said immediately, clinging to the topic. The bone saw buzzed in the recesses of his mind. "Yes, I remember," he said to spite the sound.

"Rockaway Beach," Steve said. He floundered for a few unbearable seconds. "You remember that day? The redhead Dolores."

"I called her Dot." He said it mostly to prove it to himself that he could. He relaxed his fist only so he could clench it again.

"Right. You called her Dot. All that money you spent trying to win that bear. You were a man on a mission, Buck. You were really causing a scene. The game was rigged, everyone knew. And you started getting bent out of shape and cussing out the poor kid who was working the stand."

Bit by bit — layer by layer — Bucky relaxed his fist. "She was a swell girl. Wanted to do somethin' nice for her."

"I know you did."

"Keep talking."

Steve did. He talked about that day at the beach. Bucky never did win the bear. They'd asked him to leave. Steve said that Bucky had acted all calm and agreeable; he said he would leave. But then Bucky had jumped over the stand, stole one of the bears off the peg, and made a run for it. Steve ran with him and had a hard time keeping up. But it wasn't because of asthma; it was because he was laughing so hard. No one had really chased them. Bucky had paid more than enough trying to follow the rules.

Steve was laughing when he said, "And you were sat in the back of the goddamn truck looking so proud of yourself. You told me that if they were going to make crooked games, you were going to play crooked, too."

The breath in Bucky's lungs was labored because he wanted to laugh. The splinters and shrapnel in his lungs wouldn't allow it. His hand was relaxed. He heard waves instead of a saw. "What happened to the bear?" he said.

"I don't remember," Steve said. "You never gave it to Dolores. I know that much for sure. She tossed you after you blew her off at the beach. Said you cared more about the game than her."

"Ungrateful," he said with his lips bending upward.

"She was a nice girl," Steve said. They breathed. "You OK?"

He nodded against the table. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Don't mention it."

Steve didn't hesitate. "What was happening?"

"What do you think?" Bucky said. "The arm."

The air crackled between them. The saw picked up over the waves. Snow accumulated on his eyes.

"Jesus, Buck."

His hand clenched. "Don't talk about it."

Bits of metal. Bits of metal being built up and up where bones and muscles and tendons had been torn down and down. He had titanium rods. He had wires and actuators and controllers and sensors and pumps and gauges and _there were parts of_ him _still in there. And it cracked the parts of him that were still made of muscles and bones and tendons when he stood. It tore his muscles like the raw meat they were. The tendons strained and strained until they couldn't do it anymore. So they put parts of_ it _in him. Metal crawled up inside him and made certain they'd never be parted._

But they _were_ parted. The ghost of two arms to haunt him now. And a third, if he chose it. 

There was too much snow covering his eyes. The wind punched him. The wind — it had tried its hardest to push him back up when he had fallen from that train.

"Bucky! Bucky! C'mon, man. Bucky!"

The wind stopped punching. Steve again. Steve slapping his face.

"M'alright," Bucky said.

Steve's outline shifted. Bucky couldn't see through the snow in his eyes, but he could see shapes moving on the other side. One of the hands fell from Bucky's face. The other stayed there, keeping the head held up. The snow was melting from his eyes.

"We're here," Steve's voice said.

"Huh?"

"We're in Wakanda."

"Oh."

"There's a medical team right outside the jet. OK? Don't worry."

Bucky blinked and he blinked. The snow melted and dripped down his cheeks. Grunting, he shifted his bones and his muscles and his tendons until he was sitting. Steve made overwhelmed noises and fluttered. He tried to push Bucky back down but was too afraid of hurting him to apply any real force. The splinters and shrapnel in his back and side twisted in his flesh with every movement. Bucky curled over his legs and breathed.

"I can walk," he told Steve.

"Don't be stupid."

"Steve, please." He shook away the snow that was re-accumulating in his eyes. "I can do this. I can walk." _I have to do this._ Bucky held up his only arm.

Of course Steve took it. Of course Steve put the arm around his shoulders and stood the two of them up. He always had. One hand held Bucky's wrist and the other was around his waist, mindful of its position and pressure now that the wound was visible.

Bucky moved forward, bones and muscles and tendons.


End file.
